


Stretch of Way

by dornfelder



Series: Brothers in Arms [3]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon Divergence, M/M, interlude of sorts, set between 3.06 and 3.09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 05:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11154756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornfelder/pseuds/dornfelder
Summary: What they share is just a stretch of way – what affection exists betweeen them can only be temporary. They are allies, brothers in arms, only for a time.





	Stretch of Way

**Author's Note:**

> So this is now officially a series. This part picks up right after "A Way to Pass Time", and there will be at least one more part after this one - if I manage to write it - which will be from Charles' point of view. We're also now deviating from canon because the outcome of 3.09 is entirely inacceptable in this universe. Some parts of the dialogue are taken directly from the show.

The bed, it turns out, is much too narrow for two grown-up men who try to sleep while being unaccustomed to having a bedmate. Flint wakes for the first time when Vane turns in his sleep with a groan, his hair tickling Flint's nose. Flint shifts a little and tries to fall asleep again, but he no longer can; it's too hot, Vane is too close, and he's snoring. 

Flint shifts again, which wakes Vane and ends with long minutes of growing annoyance until Vane groans and groggily sits up. "I'll take the hammock." 

In secret relief, Flint makes room for him to get out of bed. When he lies down again on his back, the way he usually sleeps, Vane's scent lingers in his pillows. For a moment, he's inexplicably annoyed by it. The feeling fades as he falls back asleep. 

In the morning, Vane is already gone from the cabin when Flint wakes. 

Their paths don't really cross during the day. Flint has other things to occupy his mind: he didn't get the fleet, but there are potential allies in Tortuga, maybe in Jamaica, who they can turn to. Bonnet is still out there somewhere, rumor has it he's been looking for ways to take revenge on Teach. They'll need to take a ship for Vane, and soon. Vane won't accept anything less than his own command. 

In the light of day, their nightly encounter holds the potential for disaster. Vane cannot possibly be comfortable with how much he's revealed to Flint. Flint shouldn't have pushed, not during or after. Truths like this one, once revealed, bear the risk of fueling resentment, and Vane's pride is a factor not to be disregarded. 

He's let Flint have him, and Flint _has_ had him, but on his terms, not Vane's, eliciting a submission unwillingly given. Vane's competitiveness is going to see that as a challenge that has to be answered. Between that and Vane's equally hesitant confession, Flint will need to walk a fine line. Vane will want to reassert his own dominance, and Flint will have to submit, some way or another, to restore the fragile balance between them, but if Vane thinks, just for a second, that Flint's submission is _given_ , not won, there will be hell of a price to pay ...

Once committed to a cause, Vane makes for a formidable ally. He's also a nuisance in a variety of ways. Flint should have known better than to let his carnal needs cloud his judgment. Should have known better than to invite a man to his bed whose temper is volatile on the best of days. 

Not that he has invited Vane, exactly. 

Not that it matters who invited whom. 

On a ship like the Walrus, avoidance is near impossible. It works for most of the morning, while Vane is sitting at the stern – contemplating his fate, or whatever it is he is doing. If avoidance, in this case, weren't the inevitable prelude to a confrontation, Flint would be fine with it. On the other hand, if this were anyone else, he would seek them out to make sure his worries are unfounded – to resolve this before it becomes a problem. 

He's not sure what the best strategy is – confront Vane to get it over with, or wait for Vane to set the terms of their next encounter? If Flint seeks him out, Vane might not be ready and feel cornered; if Flint waits too long, Vane might spend too much time brooding, which in turn is certain to foster resentment. 

Vane shows up in the afternoon, when Flint puts down the spy-glass he used to track another ship's passage. She's flying Dutch colors, and the temptation to go after her, take an easy price, is stronger than it should be. But where would they sell their stolen goods, and where would they stock up on powder? 

"That island," Vane says, appearing next to him, seemingly out of nowhere. "The maroons. Tell me about them." 

Flint keeps looking at the merchant ship. She's too slow and hulking for a hunter, even if they could take her for Vane. "What do you want to know?"

It turns out Vane wants to know everything: their numbers, their defenses, their leaders. Flint tells him the outline – the queen, Mr. Scott, the connection between that place and Nassau. "I left Mr Silver there to solidify our alliance with them," he says. He's been talking for long minutes, interrupted only by a couple of questions that tell him that Vane is listening, paying close attention to all the details.

"Are you sure they'll still be your allies upon our return, not his?"

Flint concedes the point with a slight tilt of his head. "He's persuasive, but not _that_ persuasive. But what we need to do is prepare for the possibility that our new allies will desert us once they realize we are returning without the fleet."

"The treasure –"

"The treasure is a maybe," Flint says. "It might change the odds in our favor, but then, it might not."

"I'll do what I can to help." 

Flint turns his head to look at him, but Vane is staring out at the ocean, where the Dutch price is disappearing at the horizon. 

"What would you have done in my place?" he says. "Trapped in the fort with the men at the gate, yelling for me to come out so they could deliver me to the governor. He'd pay them ten thousand pounds in sterling."

"A considerable sum," Flint says after a moment. "It would have been almost impossible for most men to resist that temptation in combination with the pardons."

"With the two of us there, the outcome would have been different." 

"With the two of us there, we might both have lost our lives – our defenses were sound, but there are always ... unforeseeable events. Our plans did not account for Hornigold; they did not account for Teach. Or Eleanor Guthrie, aiding the new governor with knowledge that he otherwise couldn't possibly have." 

"I should have known. The moment they named me as an exception. You are the war leader, but Eleanor wouldn't have seen you as a threat."

"They believed me dead, which removed the necessity to see me delivered."

"I wasn't going to leave," Vane says. He's still staring at the distance. "But between the pardons, the bounty, and _him_  –" he cuts himself off, shakes his head. "I don't owe you an explanation."

"No," Flint says. Thinks it over. "Faced with your choice, I'd likely have done the same."

"You would have taken the fleet, made a tactical retreat and schemed to return to Nassau."

"Yes," Flint says. "But for me, leaving would mean the same as going to exile. I've done that once. When I came to Nassau –" He cuts himself off. How did they get from Vane offering an explanation to Flint doing the same? 

He looks at Vane, who immediately turns his head to meet his gaze. The absence of anything that conveys a challenge – disdain, or annoyance, or curiosity – is surprising. It's this lack of reaction, of judgment, that disarms him so that he continues after a moment. "I bound myself to Nassau, in a way. It was about her, always, she was … my harbor. She had become my cause after –" 

He stops, can't say the words. There's this instinctive caution that advises him not to tell Vane anything, because surely Vane will use it against him. The distrust of ten years isn't easily forgotten. He knows he man Vane is, how little regard he has for the things other men keep sacred. 

And yet, Vane already knows the gist of it, and hasn't used it against him. 

Flint takes a deep breath. "After they had taken Thomas, it was the only thing that was left to do." 

"Your Thomas. What was he like?"

Flint swallows. Looks at the sea because it's too difficult to meet Vane's eyes. Clouds are gathering at the horizon; a storm brewing to the north, one that they'll easily outrun. 

"He was … so very bright – resplendent in a way that drew the eye, not only mine, but everyone's. A shiny thing I couldn't have - or so I thought. When it turned out that I could – there was nothing I wouldn't have given him. I can't possibly describe him in a way that would make sense to you or anyone else who hasn't known him. And certainly, my judgment was clouded when it came to him, I cannot deny that." 

"Who betrayed you? That governor in Carolina?"

"Yes, but we didn't know it at the time. But it was Thomas' father who turned against us – for political reasons, mostly. Peter Ashe sided with him."

"Did you make him pay for it?"

"I did," Flint says. 

"Good."

"Why would you say that?" 

"Because it helps me realize that we are not as different as I once thought. That rage, that pride, you have it too. Some things have to be repaid in kind – in blood."

"I am not proud of what I did." 

"Would you do it again?"

 _In a heartbeat._ Flint doesn't need to say it; Vane already knows.

**********

That night, there are no discussions, no negotiations. There's no pretense – the moment Flint enters the cabin, Vane is on him, and Flint forgets whatever misgivings he's had. Any thought of resistance dissolves under the onslaught as Vane pushes him against the door. Vane's hands on him are deft and strong, his smell, half-familiar, awakens memories of the night before. Flint's body reacts to the tight grip Vane has on his wrist, pinning it to the door over his head, and to the hand that cups him through his breeches. His cock fills rapidly. 

"I won't recite poetry for you," Vane says, lips close to his ear. "You're going to fuck me anyway."

"That so?"

"You want me," Vane says, and there no way to deny it, so Flint doesn't bother. He turns his head to capture Vane's mouth The response is immediate. Vane uses what inches he has on Flint to tilt his head back and push his tongue deep into his mouth, as if they're already fucking. 

_Jesus._

Time for talking, for a back and forth of confessions and concessions and reluctantly offered truths, appears to be over. Vane is relentless, leaving Flint out of breath and flushed, his chest heaving. 

"I want you to fuck me," Vane says. "But this time, it happens my way."

"All right," Flint says, with an inkling that Vane isn't asking for consent, precisely, but rather informing him of what's going to happen unless Flint offers outright resistance. 

Not that there's any reason to do that, not right now, when Vane pushes him onto his back on the floor, loosens his belt and pulls down his breeches, then proceeds to strip and straddle him. Vane's hand closes around his cock, coated in oil, stroking him roughly. Flint gasps, bites his lips to keep the noises from escaping. Vane's grip is slick and tight, devastatingly efficient in bringing him to the edge. 

"Jesus Christ –" he bites out. 

Vane laughs and stops stroking him. He holds Flint's cock steady and gets in position to lower himself onto it. He throws his head back and shivers as Flint's cock breaches him. "Yeah. Like this –"

Tightness, and pressure, and an unbelievable heat as Vane's body opens to him and Flint slides in right to the hilt. Vane stills, breathes in and out, and Flint can do nothing – Vane's whole weight rests on him, keeps him pinned to the floor. Vane's breath comes in small, shallows gasps. Then he starts to move, lifts himself up and sinks back down, falls into a rhythm that Flint tries to match, thrusting up in counterpoint. 

It's good, it's so fucking good. His toes curl with the sheer, mind-blowing pleasure of it. Vane moves faster, circles his hips, and groans wildly. Flint's hands find their way to his hips, and he holds on for dear life while Vane's picks up the pace even more, his eyes glassy and distant, lost to his own pleasure. 

Too good, too fast: Flint's feels his climax approaching and grits his teeth, trying to hold on. "Fuck," he forces out, helpless, "fuck, if you keep doing this, I'll –"

Vane slows down, just a little, and quirks a brow. The message is clear. _See how that feels?_

When he starts moving faster again. Flint groans. In blind desperation, he closes his hand around Vane's cock and strokes, him, almost uncoordinated, and Vane immediately catches his wrist and pins his arm to the floor. "No." 

Flint squeezes his eyes shut. Vane is going to make him come, and they both know it. It starts deep in his guts, and he can't – fucking _can't_ – " _Bastard_ ," he grits out, and bucks his hips as he comes in a blinding rush. Vane laughs and stills, his fingers tightening around Flint's wrists. 

Fuck. Fuck. Flint pulls up one leg and topples them over, rolls Vane on his back. His fingers replace his cock, he pushes them in two at once and finds Vane's hole slick with oil and his own release. He closes the other hand around Vane's cock, and then, because he needs Vane to finish, and quickly, bends down to take him into his mouth, sucks hard, without finesse or anything resembling grace – just pressure and suction – gags a little when Vane's hips buck, but doesn't let go, redoubles his effort to fuck Vane with his fingers and sucks his cock until Vane comes with a strangled groan. Flint swallows the bitter, salty liquid flooding his mouth, then takes his mouth off Vane's cock and slowly pulls out his fingers. 

Vane is laughing under him, a hoarse bark of a laughter. Flint want to hit him. He doesn't; he's too drained for it, and it's tempting to just stay where he is, pillow his head on Vane's thigh and go to sleep. But the floor is hard and uncomfortable, now that he can think of anything else but sex, and Vane's far too pleased with himself as it is. Flint bites his thigh, not too hard, but not exactly gently either, and Vane flinches and groans.

Flint slowly sits up. Vane has stopped laughing. He's lying on his back, one arm slung over his head, the other on the floor beside his hip. His legs are spread, and his cock and balls are on display – he's a sight, that's for sure. His chest rises and falls, golden skin covered in sweat.

"Should have known you'd be like this," he says. He slowly takes his arm away and raises his head a little to look at Flint. "When you took to piracy, you had to be better at it than all of us. Now this, and you just can't stand to be outdone. Always trying to prove something."

"I'm not the only one."

"Maybe," Vane concedes. Moments pass. He doesn't show any inclination to move. 

Flint slowly scrambles to his feet. 

"I'm not going to suck your cock," Vane says.

Startled, Flint turns his head to look at him. "I didn't ask you to."

Vane snorts. "No, of course not, because asking for something is not something you do." He rolls over to his side, supporting himself on one elbow. "Just letting you know that it's not going to happen, so don't wait for it." 

"All right," Flint's mind had been too preoccupied with other thoughts, but now it focuses on the what Vane has actually said, and the reasons he feels the need to state it like this. "Anything else I should know?" 

Silence, after, and Flint belatedly realizes the implications: that he's expecting, and _acknowledging_ that whatever they're doing – sharing a bed, fucking, whatever one wants to call it – will continue to happen. 

"Don't put anything around my throat," Vane says after a moment. _Jesus Christ._

"I wasn't going to," Flint says. On his way to the table, he almost stumbles over Vane's boots, picks them up and throws them at him with a pointed glance.

**********

What was meant to be a three day journey takes them an additional day as they lose the winds. The third night passes much as the first two did, only this time, it's Vane who fucks Flint in his bed, hard and deep and glorious, and it's Flint who has to fight not to be too loud in his pleasure. 

He comes with Vane's hand on his cock, roughly stroking him to completion, and Vane keeps fucking him after, more slowly, with long, deep strokes. It's all Flint can do to hold on and take it until Vane comes with a deep groan. Flint doesn't even have the strength, or the motivation, to do more but collapse on the bed. Vane slumps on top of him, and Flint makes a noise of protest until Vane lets himself slide off to one side. No words are spoken. The world is blissfully quiet. 

When Flint opens his eyes again, it's the middle of the night, his right leg has gone numb, and Vane is asleep, still half on top of him. 

Flint grumbles, shifts, but then it's too much effort to do more but turn to his side. Vane simply turns with him, his arm around Flint's waist, and presses his forehead against Flint's shoulder. 

It's how they wake in the morning, back to chest, with Vane's arm still slung around him. 

Just for a moment, Flint allows himself to lie there and bask in it, the steady rise and fall of Vane's chest, his warmth – he's always running hot, and a faint sheen of sweat is covering his arm even now. A heavy, undeniable presence: even ins his sleep, Charles Vane is a force to be reckoned with. Also, snoring. Again.

Flint puts up with it a while longer before he leaves the bed. The empty space is immediately occupied by Vane, who grumbles something and doesn't appear willing to acknowledge the morning, as if it will go away if he keeps his eyes shut. 

That thing, Charles has in common with Thomas. 

Flint washes up, wincing at the stench of sleep and sex and the way Vane's personal smell clings to his skin. He scrubs himself more vigorously, dresses, and leaves the cabin before the men can come looking for him. His body bear the marks of what happened last night, reminding him with every step: the soreness of getting fucked, the bruises on his hips where Vane kept him still, the strain in his arms where he'd braced himself against the force of Vane's thrusts. 

He can't even pretend that he doesn't like it, that a part of him isn't thoroughly satisfied. Being taken like this, with someone laying claim to him, is a feeling both powerful and heady, and he has to struggle not let it distract him..

**********

Upon their arrival at the camp, the gazes that follow them are full of curiosity. There's still apprehension, of course, but Silver seems to have done a good job at soothing raised hackles. He meets them as they cross the lake, but they have little time to exchange more than the most basic information until they are brought before the queen. 

Afterward, Flint finds Billy and Silver in an animated conversation, and from the look Silver casts him, he can imagine what Billy is telling him – Teach's name is going to be mentioned once or twice. 

Vane is nowhere to be seen. 

Time is of essence; they have to return to Nassau soon, so Flint gives orders to restock on water and food and assemble the men. They'll be underway before darkness falls. 

As they gather in the center of the camp, Flint sees Vane emerging from Mr. Scott's hut. He joins them without saying a word, blending in among the men, but his eyes are alert, brows drawn together. 

There is no opportunity to talk to him right now, and besides keeping half an eye on him, just to be on the safe side, there's not really anything Flint can do. Later, as they have set sail and the island disappears at the horizon, Flint goes looking for Vane and finds him sitting on a coil of rope on the gun deck. Vane gives him half a smile. He gets up from his seat and together they walk to the stern. They won't be sharing a cabin tonight: the princess will sleep there for the duration of their journey, and they will have to hang hammocks somewhere else, which means no room for privacy.

"You were talking to Mr. Scott earlier," Flint says. "What was that about?"

"Cleared some things up. Bunch of morons we are, neither of us knew what he was up to the whole time."

The bitterness in Vane's voice isn't quite comprehensible to Flint; of all the secrets someone might keep, surely this one is an understandable one. It's no secret Scott never trusted the pirates of Nassau – he'd been most wary of Flint and Vane, for seemingly obvious reasons, but now it's clear that Eleanor was never at the core of it. 

"When we free Nassau," Vane says after a moment. "She'll have to be free for everyone. Not just us. Everyone. People like you, people like me. People like her." He tilts his head at Madi. "Maybe even the Spanish. Those who want to come."

"First we'll have to succeed in driving the governor out of Nassau," Flint says. "Once she's ours …"

"There's no use in doing things halfway," Charles says. 

"No," Flint agrees. He draws a deep breath. He looks at Charles, who looks back, and it's suddenly easy to give him a small smile. It's suddenly easy to open himself to the possibilities, the promise, and find confidence in it, all of it – their cause, their allies. Something that might be worth holding onto – not because there's nothing else, but because it's something to look forward to. A future.

**********

"They won't move them out of the bay until we're sighted. Two hours, maybe three, until they're under way and on sight here," Flint says, watching the beach. "Make our approach off the coast. We won't have long. Hopefully Charles will meet us at the rendezvous as scheduled. We'll ferry any recruits on board as quickly as possible and be on our way." 

It's only after he's said it that he realizes he's never called Charles by his given name before, not right to his face, certainly not when talking about him. None of the others seem to notice that something is amiss, and then they have different things to worry about as Silver spots the new governor sitting on the beach, a white flag indicating he intends to parley.

**********

Rogers is a good-looking man, and he's isn't a fool. That impression only solidifies itself when he opens their conversation with a familiar name, one he uses like an invocation, almost, and one that doesn't fail to awaken a familiar pain in Flint's chest. 

He wonders whose idea this meeting was. The governor's? Eleanor's? 

He wonders where Rogers heard of Thomas, whether he'd been talking to some of the lords who had been willing to side with the, back then. Has he read some of Thomas' old letters, does he really know what Thomas meant to accomplish? Is it possible that Rogers knows more than he lets on about who they were, and what happened to Thomas? It's a temptation to test what he knows, what he might be willing to disclose, but Flint resists. 

Rogers sounds so very reasonable. So very sure of himself, that he can put the fucking pardons on the table like that, and face no opposition. _Unconditional pardons_. That, in itself, is a lie: how can every man's sins be forgiven, but not Vane's? 

At the end of their meeting, Flint knows that Rogers is smart, that he's ambitious. 

At the end of their meeting, Flint knows enough. 

With their new alliance, with Vane on their side, with Rackham and his part of the treasure within reach, there's a good chance that the tide will have turned when – if – they ever see each other again. 

Flint leaves the table and returns to the Walrus, wondering what Miranda would have said, faced with Rogers' easy charm and persuasiveness. Wondering what Thomas would have made of him. 

It's no use, both of them are dead, and Flint has to rely on his own judgment. 

Before Charles Town, maybe he'd have been able to work with Rogers – for Miranda's sake. But ultimately – ultimately, what Rogers is offering is no longer enough. 

Flint's been living in Nassau for ten years, and he's known a kind of freedom that he doesn't think he could give up for long. He won't be bought with concessions, the bread crumbs and scrapes of the high table, and neither will his allies.

**********

"Why the fuck did you hand over the chest?" 

They are standing on the deck. Only moments ago, Vane and Bonny have come aboard, and Vane has given a brief account of the events. What he _hasn't_ given is an explanation. Their plans have been thoroughly altered by this turn of events. If they return to the camp without anything to show for, their alliance with the maroons will come to a swift and inglorious end. If Vane has endangered their mission for no discernible purpose –

Vane meets his gaze. "Because had we held it, right now we'd be in a standoff with a superior force," he says. "Time working against us, and no way to secure Jack's release." He looks at Bonny, then back at Flint, intent. "This way, the governor has everything he needs, and no reason to suspect anything's amiss, leading him to proceed with his plan." 

Flint has experienced a variety of emotions since he's first seen Vane and Bonny through the spyglass. The first, upon seeing Vane unharmed, has been relief, then astonishment, closely followed by a moment of helpless, and rather useless, disappointment – why couldn't his have gone according to plan, just this once? – replaced by chagrin. Now, with Vane's steady gaze directed at Flint, his anger evaporates. "A plan you think we can frustrate?" he says and takes a step toward Vane.

"Jack and the cache are to be moved aboard a secret caravan to a ship waiting somewhere off the southern coast. If we can intercept that caravan, we can secure both the money to start our war and the partner to help us fight it."

"Either we get Jack and the cache," Bonny says, "Or we get nothing."

It's … a surprising move, both strategically smart and bold. The boldness is nothing unexpected, the strategy is. Again his gaze locks with Vane's, and Vane gives him a slight nod.

**********

They reach Miranda's house before dawn. Billy takes up his post on a nearby hilltop to wait for Featherstone's messenger, while Flint leads Vane and Bonny inside the house. 

It's been months since his last visit. Since their return from Charles Town, he has only been here three or four times, just to make sure the house was still there, her things untouched. He doesn't even know why, only that somehow, in some small way, her spirit lives in here, and the thought of giving it up is unbearable. It's been her home more than his, but it's all that is left of their life together. Their books, her clavichord, the painting of her and Thomas. They'd made their own world here, one irreconcilable with his life at sea, and it feels more than strange to grant Vane and Bonny access to it. Watching Vane step through the door, with an expression like he might bolt every moment – it's something else.

"I'll go take a piss," Anne says, and steps right back out. She doesn't wait for an answer. 

Vane explores the house silently. At a loss of what to do, Flint follows him, and finds him in Miranda's bedroom. Miranda's presence is more subtle here, betraying less of her personality, but also more intimate: she used the room only for sleeping, but all her clothes are here and the bed linen still holds traces of her scent. 

Vane looks at the portrait, raises his eyebrows at it in silent inquiry, and Flint gives him a nod. Part of him wants to wrap it into a piece of cloth and store it away, and another part – the part that wins out, just like it always does – can't stand to look at it even for those brief moments. Flint stares down at the floor. There is a indention where Miranda once dropped a bowl, old and smoothed over, but still visible when someone knows to look for it. Flint had surprised her, returning from Nassau unexpectedly, and she'd hissed like a furious cat and asked him whether he'd forgotten how to _knock_. He'd held her, later that night, and read to her – _A Midsummer Night's Dream_. She'd fallen asleep in his arms. 

At the sound of Vane's voice, Flint lifts his head. He banishes her ghost as best as he can, but the dull ache in his chest makes it hard to breathe for a moment. 

"In Charles Town," Vane says. "Say they hadn't trialed you. Say they had given you the pardons. Say I hadn't been there to steal your ship. What then? Would you have come back with her? Stayed with her?"

"I wanted to," Flint says. His throat is dry. 

"Would you have been content, living like that? With her?"

"I'd like to think so, yes."

Vane's eyes narrow. "Bullshit. What would you have done with all that rage and violence inside of you? Would you have locked it all away? Would you have been _faithful_ to her – fucked her with your eyes closes so you wouldn't see her tits?"

"Stop," Flint says. His hands clench into fists. He stares Vane down, who scoffs, then looks away. "Don't talk about things you don't understand."

"You didn't want her," Vane says. His head is turned toward the portrait. "Not like you wanted him. Not like you want me. Deny it all you want –"

"I'm not denying it." 

Vane spins around. Their eyes meet. 

Flint moves without wanting to, and Vane meets him halfway. The kiss is almost violent – punishing and furious – on both sides. Vane's tongue pushes in his mouth, forceful and relentless, and the barely controlled tension in Vane's body is both a threat and a promise. 

The front door slams, and they break apart.

Flint's heart is pounding. He turns away and returns to the parlor, taking a deep breath and trying to suppress the sudden, raging arousal and the way it shows in his labored breathing, the tightness of his breeches. It's difficult to ban the images from his mind. He wants nothing more than to return to the bedroom, push Vane down onto Miranda's bed, and get lost in him. 

The whole thing is getting out of control. 

It's dangerous, it's a distraction he cannot afford, yet he's unable to stop it, and what he's feeling – he hasn't felt it for so long, it's near impossible not to want more of it, of the desire that had been stomped out after Thomas, that feeling of want. Seeing a person and feeling that spark of heat.

That it's Vane who has succeeded in awakening that part of him … well. But it is undeniably true, and now it's the sight of his broad shoulders that stirs him, the sight of Vane's hair, knowing how it feels under his hands. It's the smell of his sweat that makes something tighten his his gut, something fierce and possessive. Even now, with Vane standing behind him while Flint refuses to acknowledge his presence, he can feel the want, a low, constant thrum. It's still so new, this thing between them, and disconcertingly reminiscent of his time with Thomas – when they were constantly living on the brink of exhaustion between their relentless campaign and their sleepless nights of fevered, irresistible passion.

Vane has nothing in common with Thomas – there are worlds separating the two. And it's not fair to either of them to make that comparison. Thomas, born and raised as the son od English nobility – and Charles, who has never known anything but the wild, lawless New World. 

What would Thomas have thought of Charles? Back when Flint had returned to Nassau after Teach had disposed of the governor – Vane was part of his fleet, one of his closest allies. Still young and green - what would Thomas have made of him? Flint vaguely remembers Vane, from back then. He had been Teach's right hand, not yet a captain in his own right. Teach, and by association Vane, had been the kind of men even Thomas would have hanged. Unrepentant in their conviction that they could take what they wanted, wherever and whenever they wanted, because they'd claimed that power for themselves and they were willing to spill blood to keep it. Before Charles Town, Fint had felt nothing but contempt for Vane, and maybe part of the reason was that he had, quite irrationally, blamed Teach and Vane for disposing of the governor – the exact thing that had brought their campaign for the pardons in England to such an abrupt and devastating end. And it's quite possible that it was also the thing that made Peter Ashe change sides – their last, desperate gamble, one that, in retrospect, had been doomed to fail even without Alfred Hamilton's intervention. Hennessey had never been willing to believe Flint. In retrospect, Flint can see how his own infatuation had made it seem, to an outsider, as if his judgment was impaired – even without the knowledge of the true nature of his and Thomas' relationship. 

It no longer matters. The scales have tipped, and even the new governor will not reverse time. Charles is no longer Teach's man, nor Eleanor Guthrie's, and the resentment between them has lessened, making room for something new. 

Whatever that may be.

**********

They keep waiting, and a couple of hours pass. Vane checks the perimeter repeatedly while Bonny descends into brooding silence. Flint finally starts a fire. Vane moves around the house, increasingly restless, which irritates and annoys Flint to the point of distraction. When he starts playing on Miranda's clavichord, Flint fights the immediate urge to forcibly remove his hands from the keys.

"Please, don't touch that," he says when he can no longer stand it. To his surprise, Vane obeys. 

"All these things," Vane says after a moment. "Porcelain, books, all so goddamn fragile. The energy it must take to maintain it all. And for what? I can understand a woman's desire for domesticity, but a man's? That, I can't understand." 

His words pose a challenge, and if Flint pauses to think about it, also contain a hint of jealousy. "I can't understand how you cannot understand," Flint retorts. He gets to his feet, takes a step toward Vane. "You have no instinct towards earning for yourself a life more comfortable?" Does Vane never think of a life where he retires from the account, where home means something different than a tent on the beach? 

"I don't," Vane says, approaching him. "And had I that instinct, I would resist it with every inch of will I could muster. For that is the single most dangerous weapon they possess, the one they tempt. 'Give us your submission, and we will give you the comfort you need.'" He raises an eyebrow. "No, I can think of no measure of comfort worth that price." 

His words have merit, Flint has to admit that. But the part he is leaving out – maybe out of denial, or because he really doesn't know better – is that a home does not mean books, or porcelain, or a clavichord. Home means someone waiting for you, someone you can trust, someone you are connected to. Home can be a person, and it can be something you build – not possession, but belonging, something you'd give your life to protect. 

That Vane is here, and not in Okracoke with Teach, speaks louder than words of the fact that Vane, too, is searching for something, that a life entirely without commitment is no longer enough. 

But whatever he is looking for to fill the void, he has to find it himself, or not at all, and Flint … Flint can't be that thing for him. The mere thought is ridiculous – whatever they are to each other won't last. What they share is just a stretch of way – what affection exists between them can only be temporary. They are allies, brothers in arms, only for a time.

**********

The carriage, the cache. Vane is working to get Rackham's chains loose. "Go," he says, and then, "We'll be right behind you." 

"Right behind us," Flint repeats. He doesn't like this. He doesn't like this one bit. 

Vane gives him a brief look, a mixture of impatience and reassurance, and Flint can only nod and accept his word as it is given. He and Billy secure the chest, mount their horses, and ride toward the beach, where the Walrus will send out a launch to take them on board.

**********

Only one horse galloping toward them, and Flint shields his gaze from the sun to scan the beach and search for the other one. 

"Where is Vane?", he asks, as soon as Rackham and Bonny have reached them. 

"The militia arrived before he could get away," Rackham says. "We had no choice but to run."

"Fuck." His mind is reeling. If they take Vane back to Nassau, everything might happen. Eleanor is there, and she has valid reason to see him hanged. He turns to Billy and Bonny. "Take him and the cache and get out of here."

"What?" Billy asks, taken aback. "You can't stay behind." 

"I'll go find Vane. Once he's free, we'll find our own way back to the camp." 

"Captain –"

"Charles Vane swinging over Nassau is a statement we cannot afford to be made."

" _You cannot stay_ ," Billy says, with an unusual determination. "We're about to get the war you wanted, and perhaps a credible path towards something resembling victory, but the war is going to follow that chest, and you're the only one of us who can marshal it."

"He's right," Rackham says, visibly dejected. "He's right. If Charles knew we were even contemplating jeopardizing the grander effort to save him, he'd kill us all."

They are right, of course they are – he needs to leave Vane's rescue up to others. The cache is of greater importance than their lives. Flint knows that, knows without a doubt that Charles would expect him to leave the island immediately. Flint swallows with a dry throat. 

Billy is saying something, and Flint –

Flint is in England, in London. Miranda tells him that Thomas has been brought to Bethlem, and he hears himself say, in grim determination, _we're going to get him out of there_  - 

He's in Miranda's house, holds her while she is sobbing wildly in his arms and shaking, the letter forgotten on the floor – _Thomas, he's dead, they killed him, oh, God, James, they_ killed _him_  – 

He's back in Eleanor Guthrie's tavern; Miranda's angry words have left him without defenses, and his reply is full of venom. _The only thing I am ashamed of is that I didn't do something to save him when we still had the chance._

He's back in his cabin on the Walrus, lying quiet in the aftermath of their love-making, and Charles' admission echoes in his ear. _They said you and your men were lost in the storm. And I … didn't like the thought._

Images and thoughts, spinning wildly in his head. 

A book in the hands of a man who does not read, but who has come to offer testimony on his behalf. _Came to take your ship. Stayed to get you out of all this. Figured if anyone was going to make a trophy of you, it really ought to be me._

Flint takes a deep breath. 

"No," he says. To Billy, to all of them. "Eleanor Guthrie wants to see Charles dead. We simply cannot take the risk. We will have our battle, and soon – but if we don't act now, it might be too late." He looks at Bonny and Rackham. "Take the ship; go to Tortuga first – if someone is in pursuit, we can't risk leading them to the island, not yet. Billy and I will get him out of there, and join you thereafter. And as for Charles … he can take it up with me, once he is free." 

"Captain –" Billy starts, bewilderment turning into exasperation.

"No," Flint repeats. He holds Billy's gaze, makes sure he has his attention. "We – I – have left too many men behind. Good men, loyal men. I made decisions that I cannot undo – you know that better than anyone. I cannot change the past, but I'm not going to let anyone else – you, or Charles, or anyone on our side – fall."

Billy's eyes widen. He stares at Flint as if he is seeing a ghost. 

"Do you understand?" Flint says, quietly, and after a second of stunned disbelief, Billy nods. 

"I'm going with you," Anne says, and as Flint turns to look at her, she gives him a nod. Maybe she knows, or maybe she doesn't – it doesn't matter, not now; she'll be an asset, and they'll need her if they intend to get Charles out of the fort. 

"You, Billy, me, and two others," Flint says. "The rest of you set sail. We'll return to the island as soon as possible. With Charles. With the treasure."

"Don't be late," Jack says. "It would be rather inconvenient if we had to send yet another rescue party … for the rescue party." 

"Noted," Flint says. He nods at Rackham, then his eyes scan the ocean, looking for the Walrus, and he relaxed gradually as he sees her familiar masts and rigging. It won't belong before they'll ready the launch. She'll be in good hands with Silver and Rackham and the maroon princess. His mind wanders ahead, toward Nassau town, where he'll have to face an ambitious governor and an enraged Eleanor Guthrie, and save a pirate captain from being hanged. 

Charles Vane has saved his life twice. It's time for Flint to return the favor.


End file.
